Category Archives: Spotted in the wild

When people think of 1960s Chrysler Corporation collectibles, the mind usually turns (almost exclusively) to the years 1968 and ’69, and the hot muscle cars cranked out by Dodge and Plymouth.

Brash, in-your-face, and often sporting vivid colours to alert cops from afar, those rides oozed appeal but they aren’t – oh, what’s the word – subtle.

Go back a few years further, and you’d find there was still muscle to be had, only with a side of anonymity.

The 1966 Plymouth Belvedere is a good example of that – a car that could drag race on a country road but wouldn’t appear out of place in a church parking lot.

Inside this grandpa car lurks pure, raw POWER. Beware.

The Belvedere was Plymouth’s bread and butter midsize, sandwiched between the compact Valiant and the full-size Fury.

Spanning a number of body styles, the Belvedere line included the Belvedere I and II trim levels, as well as the top-level Belvedere Satellite, available only as a two door.

After spending the early 1960s in a state of confusion trying to figure out its styling direction, Chrysler Corp. entered 1966 with a firm commitment to the slab-sided look, which adorned everything from lowly Plymouths to top-end Imperials.

The razor-edged styling motif, which served to emphasize the vehicles’ length, continued until the Fuselage Era of 1969-1974.

1966 was also the year Chrysler began hitting the gym and showing off.

The fastback Plymouth Barracuda and Dodge Charger bowed that year, the latter backed by a youth-oriented ‘Dodge Rebellion’ advertising campaign.

The corporation capitalized on the success of its vehicles – including the Belvedere – in the hands of NASCAR drivers like Richard Petty, inserting those wins into ad material to bolster its growing street cred.

Midsizers often prove to be versatile vehicles, and the Belvedere was eager to be anything its owner wanted it to be.

With a 225 c.i.d. Slant-Six serving as a base engine, the Belvedere could be equipped with a vast array of V-8s. A 273 c.i.d. with 180 hp, a 318 with 230hp, a 361 with 265 hp, and a Commando 383 with 325 hp were available, as was the range-topping 426 Plymouth Street Hemi.

That engine, introduced in 1966, made 425 horsepower and 490 ft-lbs of torque. When coupled with the Belvedere’s fairly light midsize body, the engine was a performance monster.

The Belvedere spotted here sported ‘383’ badges and the popular and bulletproof 3-speed TorqueFlite automatic. No doubt it could lay some rubber in a hurry. But, if you were to take away the white letter tires and sport rims, there’d be little to give away this car’s performance secret.

Nothing says hippie counterculture, free love, and daisies shoved down gun barrels like the Microbus, which defined an era thanks to its spacious interior and ability to serve as a rolling canvas for wannabe artists.

While the lovable German people-mover was indeed the ride du jour of the Age of Aquarius, it should be remembered that the Microbus line both preceded and outlasted Jim Morrison’s career.

Born in Germany in 1950 to serve as the utility-minded stablemate of the equally iconic Beetle, the Microbus was designed to fill many niches. Called the ‘Type 2’, and known in Europe as the Transporter, the bulbous VW was produced in numerous body styles ranging from pickup to panel van to camper, not to mention the desirable ‘Deluxe Microbus’ (a model festooned with tourist-friendly skylights).

A second-generation Microbus (right) reverts back to nature alongside a 1980s-vintage Vanagon in Ottawa, Ontario.

A slow evolution followed the introduction of the Microbus. Though it departed the U.S. market in 1979, continued in production in Latin America until 2013.

The first-generation Microbus ran from 1950 till 1967 and featured engines ranging from 1.1 to 1.5 litres, while the second-generation took the model from The Summer of Love until the end of the Carter Era (1979). A slightly modified Gen-2, still containing an air-cooled engine, lived on in Mexico and Brazil well into the 21st Century.

Those second generation models are often remembered by North American non-owners as impassable barriers encountered while struggling up a steep mountain grade.

Ready for soccer practice or a Woodstock revival, these ’72 VWs had space to spare.

Certainly, the Microbus was no rocket. The second-generation engines were gutsier than before, but those 1.6 to 2.0-litre power plants still topped out at 70 horsepower.

Diesel Volvo wagons (the kind favoured by those with grey beards and elbow patches) could blow them into the weeds.

But speed wasn’t why owners and enthusiasts gravitated to the Microbus. A unique sense of character, combined with space and efficiency, was the vehicle’s true charm, and it continues to draw new fans.

A quick Google search will reveal a world of potential friends to any Microbus owner.

The longevity and continued adoration of the VW Microbus proves that a vehicle doesn’t have to be fast to be fun, and that practicality and familiarity counts for something in an industry obsessed with the Next Big Thing.

It would be great if a person could live vicariously through a parked car.

I mean, think of the boosted levels of personal satisfaction and contentment that could come from lifestyle redistribution. A society’s collective frown would be turned upside down!

Sailing… in your new Mach 1. This ’72 ad looks like it should come with a Carly Simon record.

In the real world, however, I was forced to just stand there and drool as a spotless early-70s Mustang Mach 1 rested driverless on the roadside. Of course, it had to be a warm, sunny weekend, with nearby autumn-tinged roads – twisty ones, no less – beckoning nearby.

An unfortunate moment for yours truly, but a dream come true for the lucky owner. This fastback was a real gem, too – almost too flawless. As for power under the hood, that’s anyone’s guess, as the Mach 1 told few tales via its exterior.

’71 and ’72 Mach 1’s are visually identical, but the powertrain options differ greatly. The ’71 (a year sometimes viewed as ‘the last good year’ amongst horsepower enthusiasts) could be had in more flavours than Baskin Robbins, starting at a base 302 Windsor V-8 and moving up through FOUR 351 Clevelands before topping out with two 429s (Cobra Jet and Super Cobra Jet).

Sean Connery (the life of any party) in ‘Diamonds Are Forever’.

The U.S. government let some of the air out of the high-compression fun in ’72, when the 429s were dropped in favour of just the base 302 and three 351s (in either 2-barrel, 4-barrel or 4-barrel High Output designations).

So wild was the ’71 Mach 1 that even Seam Connery got behind the wheel of one in the campy Bond flick Diamonds Are Forever, outwitting both bad guys and cops on the streets and alleyways of Las Vegas.

Solid, man.

While the Mach 1 soldiered on as a Mustang trim level until 1978, the latter four years of its run saw the famous moniker applied to the unappreciated and wimpy Mustang II.

For Mach 1 enthusiasts, the name will always bring to mind the glory days of 1969-71, an era that was (at least for car lovers) a gas, gas, gas.

The Silver Hawk (1957-59) replaced the Flight Hawk and Power Hawk in the Studebaker line. (Spotted in Arnprior, Ontario)

It’s one of those cars that makes you wish you were living in the ’50s.

The part after the polio vaccine.

Anyone wandering by this stunning 1959 Studebaker Silver Hawk would assume its vibrant, triple-tone paint job, plentiful chrome and unapologetic tail fins were the product of a company awash in money and idealism.

Not true.

The 1959 Silver Hawk escaped the cost-cutting being performed by a financially desperate Studebaker.

The car this Silver Hawk was based on – the radical 1953 Studebaker Starlight, sculpted by legendary designer Raymond Loewy – did emerge in a time of seemingly limitless postwar bliss – for both America and Studebaker.

Six years later, Studebaker’s fortunes had fallen drastically, and the Indiana-based company was in what Lee Iacocca would call ‘triage mode’. An ill-fated merger with Packard and a myriad of other issues saw Studebaker in the red, leaking money, and struggling to survive.

The Loewy-designed coupes – Starlight (pillared coupe) and Starliner (pillarless hardtop) – were given a re-working for 1956 to freshen their appearance, and were expanded into five models. The Flight Hawk, Power Hawk, Sky Hawk, Silver Hawk and top-line Golden Hawk oozed ‘1950s’, but didn’t sell in enough numbers to balance the company’s books.

Powered by a 259 c.i.d. V-8, the 1959 Silver Hawk served as Studebaker’s flagship during that lean year.

In the background of these glorious models, the parent company was doing everything possible to cut waste and increase revenues, with moderate (but ultimately limited) success. The stodgy Studebaker Champion was stripped down to become the entry-level Scotsman (1957-58) and the same car was chopped and shortened to become the spacious ‘compact’ Lark (1959-64).

Those models gave Studebaker just enough money to struggle onward rather than folding altogether. In the waste-cutting department, the Silver Hawk – Studebaker’s best-selling Hawk model – was kept for 1959 while the others were canned.

The ’59 Silver Hawk was available with a 170 c.i.d. inline-six making 90 horsepower, or a 259 c.i.d. V-8 making 180 or 195 horsepower, depending on carburation. Buoyed by the success of the Lark, Studebaker saw renewed interested in the Silver Hawk that year, selling 7,788 units.

For ’59, the Silver Hawk’s lettering moved to its tasteful (for ’59) tail fins.

The Silver Hawk name was abbreviated to just ‘Hawk’ for 1960 and ’61, as Studebaker soldiered on into a decade it wouldn’t survive. The body remained exactly the same for those model years, though an upgrade engine appeared in the form of the company’s 289 c.i.d. V-8 (making 210 to 225 horsepower).

A transmission upgrade was also offered in 1961.

The last of the Hawk lineage – the 1962-64 Gran Turismo Hawk – is still a classic, despite being a facelifted model based on 11-year-old architecture. Right up until its demise in 1964 (1966 in Canada), Studebaker had the uncanny ability to transform dated designs into something reflecting its era.

Low interest rates have been kind to Canadian car buyers, but they’ve served to slowly eliminate a once-common automotive entity – the beater.

You know, the rust-and-primer coated barge that just needs to make it through one more winter until its owner’s fortunes turn around? An increasingly rare presence in this day and age, and high gas prices and emissions regulations haven’t helped, either.

When so many road-going classics are now of the waxed weekly, Sunday drive variety, you really start to take notice of the beaters – especially the legitimately classic ones.

On a hot, dry day in July, this rusting land yacht beckoned to me from the side of Gateway Boulevard in south-end Edmonton, Alberta. A 1972 Buick Lesabre Custom, this rig truly fit the definition of ‘beater’.

Rusting everywhere along the lower body panels, and with a sun-faded vinyl top, this Brougham Era tank used to be a lot more commonplace. Yet, even with its rust and faded paint, its chrome still sparkled and the overall car still exuded a feeling of solidity, like a grizzled rancher who has no plans of retiring.

The LeSabre had beefier bumpers for ’72, in anticipation of federal 5-mph crash regulations coming down the pipe.

Clearly, this beast had been through many a winter, and the only reason there’s any body left is because Alberta doesn’t salt its roads.

The LeSabre was one of those ubiquitous ’70s full-sizers that, like the Caprice and LTD, seemed to make up a good part of the American landscape during its reign.

The LeSabre, slated above the Century in the Buick lineup but below the Electra 225, ran with few changes from ’71 to ’76, before downsizing shed both length and weight. Under the hood of this version was the trusty 350 c.i.d. V-8, now with Nixon-era EPA-mandated emissions controls.

A 455 c.i.d. V-8 was optional, with a badge on the front fender broadcasting your engine choice to the world. The only transmission available was the 3-speed Turbo-Hydramatic that propelled GMs from the 60s to the 90s.

The ’72s featured beefier bumpers than the previous year, an acknowledgement of the federally-mandated 5 mph bumper requirement that came into effect the following year. The ’73 bumpers weren’t nearly as graceful and form-fitting as those on the ’72.

The Electra 225 Limited was the top-end model for ’72, with the LeSabre slotting beneath it.

Times were changing in the American auto industry. Besides smog controls, Nanny State features like ‘fasten seatbelt’ lights and door ajar chimes entered Buick equipment lists in ’72. This was also the last year for full-size Buick ragtops.

The OPEC oil embargo the following year would bring a whole new world of hurt to the industry, one that nearly killed a member of the Big Three by the end of the decade.

Still, seeing this relic 42 years after it rolled of the assembly line is a reminder of how far the industry has come since that turbulent decade. And, we can’t forget that GM, and Buick, lives on today.

Once the pride of 1990s Japan, the Subaru SVX threw all the futuristic trappings it could find into the sporty luxury coupe, which was sold in limited numbers from mid-1991 to 1996.

The most tell-tale styling cue/gimmick on the SVX (sold as the hard-to-pronounce Alcyone overseas) was the window-in-a-window treatment, which made the car look like it had just driven out of a dystopian film set in the near future.

Under the hood of the SVX, you’d find pretty much everything except a turbo. Its twin-cam 3.3-litre flat-six used the fanciest multi-port fuel injection system available at the time, complemented by platinum spark plugs and a hefty computer nanny overseeing engine functions.

All this hardware brought the car up to 231 horsepower, which was delivered to all four wheels via the only available transmission – a four-speed automatic. No manual tranny meant that the car’s sporting credentials were not complete.

A little closer: Its tires may be flat, but that block heater cord is ready for action.

Technologically advanced, and reasonably fast, the flagship SVX was by far the most expensive product offered by Subaru at the time. Productions costs were high and buyers limited, leading to a situation where Subaru lost money on each SVX they sold.

Offering front-wheel drive base models at a reduced price didn’t reverse the tepid sales trend. Despite projecting (read: hoping) that annual sales would touch the five-figure mark, less than 25,000 were sold worldwide for the entire model run – a little more than half of that number reaching North American buyers.

Subaru’s supercar was an ambitious vehicle at the time, but multiple factors ensured that it never quite measured up to its name (Alcyone – the brightest star in the Pleiades star cluster, which forms Subaru’s corporate logo).

Of all the extinct American cars I’d like to see resurrected, the Chevrolet El Camino tops the list (the Lincoln Continental, ideally with suicide doors, is a close second).

It’s been 27 years since the last El Caminos rolled off U.S. assembly lines, bringing an end to the car-pickup era. Despite having been produced since 1959 (with a gap between ’60 and ’64), by the end of its life the midsize sedan-turned-pickup had gained a somewhat undeserved stigma as the ride du jour of hillbillies and moonshiners.

Designed to compete with the Ford Ranchero (introduced in 1957), the El Camino was initially based off the full-size Impala for ’59-60, before switching to the mid-size Chevelle platform from ’64 onwards. From 1978 to 1987, a slightly lengthened Malibu platform was put to work underpinning the fifth and last generation of El Camino. Despite being associated with the U.S. (especially the Southern U.S.), the car-pickup – aka the coupé utility, aka the ‘ute’ – was an invention and treasured automotive oddity of Her Majesty’s Commonwealth of Australia.

First marketed by Ford of Australia in 1934, the new body style was created in response to a 1932 letter from a lady who asked if they could build her a vehicle that could drive her to church on Sunday, while still being able to haul livestock on Monday.

2010-2011 Holden Ute. Since the mid-1930s, GM’s Australian division has been cranking out Utes without stopping (image: OSX/Wikimedia Commons)

The need to compete with this strange new vehicle hybrid led General Motors subsidiary Holden to bring a ute to market the following year. The Holden Ute is still in existence, and speculation has been neverending about a Chevrolet-badged version coming to our shores.*

(* Note: while I love the idea of a returning El Camino – something that probably won’t happen for years, if ever – I despise the Holden Ute’s roofline. That pinched effect where the door frame and C-pillar meet turns me off. Having the door integrated into a solid sail panel, like on El Caminos of the 60s and 70s, would eliminate this effect, and I could go back to loving it completely.)

American or Australian, the intent of the ute was to offer buyers a comfortable, car-like ride with a side of utility, made affordable by using as many existing parts as possible. And that’s the way things stayed for the El Camino (and its twin, the GMC Sprint/Caballero), though the muscle car era saw the Chevelle-based El Camino adopt the same hot powerplants and paint as its stablemate.

The El Camino Royal Knight. Just like a Trans Am. Only based on a Malibu. With a pickup bed.

The fifth and final generation of El Camino saw the ute slimmed down (as was the style in the late ’70s), now based on the midsize Malibu platform. The wheelbase gained an inch over the Malibu, but otherwise, the tradition of make do with what you have carried on. The front end of the ’78-’87 El Camino was pure Malibu.

The long doors were borrowed from the Monte Carlo coupe, while the rear tailgate was sourced from the Malibu wagon. Under the hood, the El Camino reflected the lean times it found itself in. For ’78, the base engine was a 200-cubic-inch inline six making a paltry 95 horsepower. The upgrade was the respectable and long-lived 305 cid V-8, making 145 horsepower.

A ballsy 350 c.i.d. small-block V-8 topped the range, and was the engine of choice if you were the type who longed for an eagle painted on your hood.

Three and four-speed manual transmissions came standard in lower trim levels, though most buyers opted to let the ubiquitous 3-speed Turbo-Hydramatic do the shifting for them. In ’79, the El Camino saw the stopgap 267 c.i.d. V-8 join the engine lineup, while in 1980 the base engine was dropped in favour of a 229 c.i.d. V-6 making 115 horsepower. The 350 option was also dropped that year.

The 1981 model is my favourite from this generation, mainly because Chevy ditched the egg-crate grill and went with horizontal chrome bars. Desperate to please the EPA and meet their stringent emissions requirements, GM joined most other automakers that year in adding a lockup torque convertor to their 3-speed automatic in an effort to boost highway mileage.

The following year, 1982, saw the El Camino adopt the quad-headlights and blunt front end of the refreshed Malibu, a style it would carry to its demise. GM’s notorious 350 c.i.d. diesel was offered from ’82-’84, while the 267 was dropped.

The ad says ‘Chevy Trucks’, but the El Camino was all car underneath.

Despite strong initial sales of the fifth generation El Camino, buyers drifted away and the model withered on the GM vine through most of the 1980s.

As the top photo shows, this model of El Camino (especially the pre-1982s) had some style to work with, and made the best of a two-tone paint job. Despite the stigma that grew mostly after the car ceased production, a lower-end El Camino with a V-6 and three-person bench dished out a fair bit of practicality and would have been useful in a number of situations.

And wasn’t this the original intent of the body style all those years ago in Australia?

Whether or not the El Camino rises from the ashes in North America is a question for gamblers. I figure if there was real demand for the vehicle, it would have happened by now.

Maybe the body style is too polarizing for modern sensibilities (mention the El Camino at a party and you’ll quickly see it’s either ridiculed or revered), or, maybe there are just too many new vehicles today that already have room to haul our stuff.

I’d still like to see it come back one day. And not solely as a limited-edition performance car, either – that would be GM thumbing its nose at history and the intention of the model.

I’ve said it for years – there’s something about Chrysler products from the late ’60s/early ’70s that make them seen invincible.

It just feels that regardless of what damage they could sustain – even a frame bent 90 degrees – the menacing Chrysler/Plymouth/Dodges would just get mad… and then get even.

Too many car chase movies in my youth, I guess.

The example of Mopar muscle seen here – a slightly battered 1968 Dodge Monaco 500 droptop – was once the pinnacle of luxury motoring for the Dodge division. Not just any Monaco, the massive, top-level 500 was two tonnes of compliant driving enjoyment.

Luxury conveniences were plentiful, while the power any driver of a menacing Hippie-era Dodge needed was instantly on tap. A 383-cubic inch V-8 making 330 horsepower was mated to a bulletproof 3-speed Torqueflight automatic with console shifter.

The Monaco and Monaco 500 coupes, sedans and convertibles were all based on the forgettable Dodge Custom 880 (the division’s hastily-prepared full-size offering), which ran from 1962 to 1965. The Monaco replaced the 880 in the U.S. market in 1966, and in Canada in 1967.

While the American Monaco had a 383 as the standard engine, the thrifty Canadian marketplace demanded that it also come with the 318, as well as the 225 Slant-6.

Doing what a ’74 Monaco always seemed to do best… (image: www.imcdb.org)

Looking at the bruised-but-still-kicking convertible pictured above, some of the menace fades from its visage when you imagine a Valiant-worthy Slant 6 under its hood.

While the Monaco soldiered on well into the Malaise Era (earning it lasting fame as The Blues Brothers’ car), the 500 option was scrapped after 1971. After splitting the nameplate into ‘Monaco’ (formerly, the Coronet) and full-size ‘Royal Monaco’ in 1977, a bankruptcy-bound Chrysler Corporation was forced to kill off both the following year.

Serving as the ubiquitous cop car in countless 1970s films and TV shows, the stodgy-but-tough Monaco saw its media presence last well into the ’80s, thanks to its durability and cheap resale value. Look to any episode of The Dukes of Hazzard for proof of this.

There was so much happening in the early 1960s, one can be forgiven for not noticing the roofline on a mid-range Ford Motor Company product.

The Bay of Pigs invasion, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Space Race and the JFK assassination all competed for national attention in that era. But behind all the drama (not to mention the drinking and smoking), there was a movement afoot to set the often wayward middle child of the Ford family (Mercury… we’re talking Mercury) on a new and distinctive path.

While the Fords of the late 1950s were understated and didn’t go in for the styling excesses of the higher end GM and Chrysler models of the time, Mercury and Lincoln embraced them.

Fast-forward to the early 60s. Fords remained relatively conservative in appearance (read: safe) thanks to lessons learned from their short-lived 1960 styling experiment, while Lincoln had scrapped its former gargantuan and gaudy 1958-1960 body to create a timeless classic – the 1961 Continental.

The Mercury division was left somewhere in the middle, unsure of whether to appear as an uplevel Ford or a stripped Lincoln. In preparing for the 1963model year, Mercury seized on a styling cue originally marketed in their ’57 Turnpike Cruiser as a way of setting themselves apart from the other divisions.

It was impossible not to smoke ALL THE TIME in the Mad Men era, and this 1963 ad showed how the Breezeway could change your life.

The reverse-slanted, retractable rear window was just one neat-o, futuristic gimmick on a car now semi-infamous for being full of them. The Turnpike Cruiser was the ultimate Space Age dream car, but that era has now passed.

The rear window idea, however, had legs. Not only was there comfort and convenience attributes in having a back window that could open up, out of the rain, but it would make for a noticeably different roofline – something that would help set Mercury apart from both Ford and Lincoln.

For 1963, the ‘Breezeway’ roof (as it was marketed) became available on the Monterey. In addition to the distinctive roof, the ’63 Merc set itself apart from its other stablemates by way of a strong beltline and slightly concave side panels, as well as a set of triple taillights. A big 390-cubic inch V-8 came standard and provided plenty of muscle to move the large sedan around. A 427-cubic inch V-8 was optional.

Advertising at the time called attention to the new roof, depicting pleasant scenes brought about by that overhanging roofline and retractable window. One ad showed a bird taking shelter from a rainstorm under the rear lip, while others showed happy people venting their cigarette smoke out the back of the passenger cabin.

The Breezeway roof treatment set Mercury vehicles apart from their Ford siblings from 1963 to 1968.

For 1964, Mercury resurrected the higher-end Montclair and Park Lane nameplates and applied the Breezeway roof treatment to them. In ’65, designers tried to bring the model line even more upscale by giving the Mercs a Lincoln-like front end, while reducing the number of models with Breezeway roofs.

Buyers liked the Lincoln front end (offered at a much lower price than the actual luxury division) but preferred a formal roofline for sedans. This trend carried over into the similar-styled ’66 models.

For the last two years the Breezeway roof was offered (1967 and ’68), the design changed completely in order for the car to adopt the sloping beltline with ‘shoulder’ over the rear fenders that was so popular at the time. The Breezeway roof now sloped towards the front of the car like a conventional roof, except with a slight overhang that allowed the rear window to be rolled down a couple of inches.

While the ventilation effect could still be achieved, air conditioning was now becoming commonplace, and features like the Breezeway were no longer needed, or marketable.

Though it disappeared after just six model years, the Breezeway represented an interesting and successful attempt to get noticed in a turbulent and confusing time for the auto industry. Still distinctive after all these years, well-preserved models like the mint example I found in rural Saskatchewan really stand out.

Anything with Henry Ford’s name stamped on it commands respect in America, even today.

That titan of industrialization, efficiency and ingenuity continues to hover over the western world with his ephemeral presence, like a spiritual elder still capable of instilling lessons in the youngest generation.

Everything Henry touched remains steeped in glowing, historical reverence, which is why it was such a treat to come across this pristine antique Ford in the warm gaslight of Charleston, South Carolina.

A mild breeze was blowing that night, as I strolled through the polite, temperate city that started the Civil War. And there she was – parked under a streetlight, her yellow wheel hubs and spokes matching the painted limestone of a nearby home and the crushed leaves underfoot.

The 1930 Ford Model A Town Sedan was a classy model for its era, but this example didn’t have the sidemounts that would really complete the package. Still, who can complain?

History collided that night. An 84-year-old car parking in the heart of a city 260 years its elder. If the country’s history was a stage play, both the car and the city would play larger-than-average roles.

Lookin’ civilized in the South.

The Ford Model A – Henry’s second runaway hit – is not a rare classic car. In fact, it’s one of the most common.

Between October 20, 1927 and March, 1932, Ford produced 4,849,340 Model A’s in a limitless variety of styles. So many were produced that parts are still plentiful, all these years later.

The Model A was conceived to replace the once phenomenally popular (but now rapidly aging) Model T, amid newfound competition from other automakers. The new model, like its predecessor, was designed to be durable, affordable, and easy to manufacture, but now boasted modern features and a dash of style.

The rock-solid, 201-cubic inch 4-cylinder under the Model A’s hood made 40 horsepower, and was mated to a 3-speed unsynchronized gearbox. Unlike the Model T, the Model A used the 3-pedal setup American drivers were becoming accustomed to.

Innovation was a Ford hallmark, and the new car didn’t disappoint – the Model A was the first vehicle to use windshield safety glass.

Henry Ford (1863-1947) was getting long in the tooth by the late Twenties, and didn’t feel like bothering to have a hand in the design of the car. This was likely for the best, as by that time, the Model T – which Ford still saw as adequate – was looking awfully primitive and stodgy.

Henry Ford, left, and his long-suffering only son Edsel are seen in this archive pic.

A design team headed up by Henry’s son (and Ford Motor Company president) Edsel Ford came up with a proper style for the new vehicle. And, unlike before, they made sure buyers of a new Model A could pick from a choice of colours.

Tough, versatile, and cheap (the starting price undercut $400), Model A’s continued to fly out of showrooms even after the stock market crash and subsequent onset of the Great Depression. Good thing they were built Ford tough, as many drivers were forced to keep them a lot longer than expected (or even live in them) due to the financial conditions of the time.

Edsel Ford didn’t outlive his father (he died of stomach cancer in 1943 at age 49), but the Model A will outlive all of us.

Thousands of examples of the relatively affordable classic roam the roadways of North America each summer (never quite reaching their claimed to speed of 65 mph), and new parts for the simplistic drivetrain are as close as a visit to Google.